


The Lives and Loves of Grantaire

by C-chan (1001paperboxes)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-31 10:12:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8574289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001paperboxes/pseuds/C-chan
Summary: Sometimes Grantaire remembers early. Sometimes, later on. But in life after life, he finds himself making new bonds with familiar souls, and cherishing them all over again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [date](https://archiveofourown.org/users/date/gifts).



> Looking at your prompts, I realized that a reincarnation AU would be a wonderful way to incorporate all of them, and add in a few other adventures along the way. I hope you enjoy!

The first time it happened, he was in bed. 

The food at the dinner party had been sumptuous and the wine plentiful, and he’d easily agreed to accompany the young master of the house and a few of his companions for a pleasurable, if unorthodox, round of dessert. In fact, his mouth was wrapped around that very gentleman’s member when a rush of gravitas and emotion fell over him, leaving him feeling quite undone. The emotional weight was staggering, and he was crying uncontrollably before he even thought to pull away.

The third man in the room, a good-natured spindly fellow, guided him into a sitting position. Their host gingerly did the same, placed a pillow over his member for a modicum of decency, and donned a sheepish expression.

“Well, that went rather differently than I was expecting.”

The only woman in the room, plump and beautifully proportioned with just a hint of exoticism in her features and colouration, gave a slight laugh. 

“It wasn’t all that different with you,” she reminded.

“Not true,” their host argued, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I had the good graces to finish you off before my breakdown, and to work Joly through his regardless.”

_ “Joly _ ?” he found himself repeating, a clue, a touchstone, that the others could all fall into place around. “ _ Joly. Bossuet. Votre mademoiselle…. _ ”

“Shhh,” the taller man, the one who belonged to the name  _ Joly _ and how could he have missed it before? How could he not have realised? How could he not have  _ known _ ? “It’s me, alright."

“My… my name…” he asked, nearly begged between his sobs.

“Of course,” their host (Bossuet. Of course he was Bossuet) responded. “Anything for you,  _ Grantaire _ .”


	2. Chapter 2

“You couldn’t stop crying?” Bahorel asked, taking a sip from a china mug that seemed far too dainty for his large hands.

Grantare sighed, wishing he’d ordered a larger coffee. “Not for the world. Bossuet never did get off that night, much to his chagrin. Although he was amicable enough once the night moved on. Told us about a friend of a friend’s cousin who’d apparently once had someone die in her bed. Made having a lifetime or five's worth of memories dumped on you seem like not a bad thing at all."

"I can see that," Bahorel laughed. "Me, my first was Jean Prouvaire. Remember him? Kinda like me except exactly the opposite?"

"I'm not about to forget anyone," Grantaire replied.

Bahorel smiled. "Those were good times. We had a cabin in the woods together. Kinda hermit-ish. Made some things a bit of a non-issue. And the rest of it, well, let's just say we had fun. You seen him yet?"

Grantaire shook his head.

"I hope you do sometime. That guy's amazing."


	3. Chapter 3

The shop next door smelled like freshness and  _ green _ . Maybe he shouldn’t be giving colours scents, but plants (chlorophyll, he knew) had an odour and a colour that tended to connect in such a way to make it hard to think of them individually. Plants seemed to fill nearly every available space, arranged to create something akin to a fairyland. Pixie statues and plush bears decorated as knights, princesses, and various other fantastical things added to the effect. Clusters of exotic flowers added hints of colour, and pre-made bouquets lined the walkways of this wonderland of a store.

The owner certainly fit the fairyland theme, being an elfin slip of a thing. Technically an inch or two taller than his own short and stocky frame, he somehow still seemed tiny, as if he himself were Oberon or, more likely, Puck, sent to muddle once again in the way of the humans.

It made perfect sense, really. Fairies were real, and one owned the shop next to his tattoo parlour, ready to cause mischief and battle him as to who could bring the most colour into the world.

They’d joked about it often enough, describing and debating the merits of their talents and wares upon the world. The flowers were fleeting, but plentiful and easily replenished. Tattoos only brought a bit at a time, but what they did would change a person forever and remain part of the world for decades to come. The easiest answer was a compromise that left the studio feeling far fresher than most places he'd had his sleeves worked on, and the florist with an ever-growing work of art filling his back.

He was sketching the fifth or sixth piece, part of a folded paper-thin wing with carefully incorporated words in the veins, when he was hit with a peculiar sense of deja-vu. But he'd never drawn this kind of wing before. Fairy wings, yes, but actually  _ on  _ fairies, not curled on a person's shoulder blades. The few times a similar request had been made, it was usually for something feathered, boned, or much more bat-like. 

Unable to come up with a reasonable explanation for the feeling, he set it aside and continued his work.

 

* * *

 

The feeling came and went over the rest of the time spent working on the large, intricate tattoo.

Was it wariness? The work was challenging, but he was more than capable of handling it, and the florist seemed so overjoyed with each new addition to the masterpiece. 

Was it anticipation? He certainly didn't feel the way about any of the other works he'd created, and he'd been at this for almost a decade between apprenticing and finally earning enough to open a shop of his own. 

The only other thing he could think of was love.

And so he began flirting, feeling nothing but joy when the florist picked up on the bait and began flirting right back. Before long, sonnets were being left in various types of calligraphy, matched with flowers that meant  _ just _ the right thing to match the mood of the love poem. The teddy bears were made into scenes depicting pure love (or something a little more naughty), and sketches never quite meant to be made into tattoos were scattered where they were sure to be seen. A couple times, he wasn't quite sure if they were trying to impress each other or see who could make the sappiest love declaration.

Either way, it was a good thing. A  _ very _ good thing. And yet the feeling he'd been feeling for so long, a shiver down his spine every now and again when he looked at the florist, designed for him, talked to him, didn't go away.

It wasn't until their last session on his back, when their combined masterpiece was complete, that the last puzzle piece fell into place, and Jehan turned around and said, "Well, Grantaire, what do you think?"


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn’t surprising that they met, really. The man was almost as eclectic in taste as he was. Perhaps his own interests laid more in art and Classics, and his companion’s in medicine and philosophy, but that stopped neither from taking far too many electives for their own good, and running into each other time and time again in lectures and tutorials.

It was their second semester taking three classes together (Religion, Composition, and Philology this term) that the other man approached him, a hand outstretched.

“I can’t help but notice that we have a shared interest in well-rounded education,” he said, “and I thought I should properly introduce myself.”

Was there a spark when their hands clasped? He wasn’t sure. But something awoke in the back of his head. Something that, in retrospect, was far too familiar.

The man smiling at him must have felt something similar, because his smile slipped, replaced by a whirlwind of emotion: confused, pained, melancholic happiness, something too blurry because his own eyes were welling up with tears as the handshake became a hug, as two longtime friends reunited.

“It’s so good to see you again, Grantaire.”

And in that moment, nestled in Combeferre’s embrace, he  _ knew _ once more.

 

* * *

 

It was easy to bond with Combeferre. The two did homework together over breakfasts at the Lion's Head, suppers at any of the half-dozen pubs and coffeehouses near campus, and in whatever corner of the library they could find available. They shared ideas for essays, article recommendations, and even cut their costs by sharing textbooks whenever possible.

It was easy to feel close to him. Their time off was spent debating every manner of book—it was hard to find someone as well-read as him, and it felt nearly like a local branch of the Inklings he’d read about at Oxford, an ocean away albeit with a membership of merely two. Sure, Combeferre was ever the pacifistic idealist against his own near-anarchic pessimism, but their differing opinions lead to fascinating and well thought out debates no matter what the subject.

He's not quite sure when the feelings transmuted into something more. There was no single moment of infatuation, no birds singing and rosy hues. Only a moment upon waking up on Combeferre's floor after a night of writing and discussion, in which he realizes he's been in love with his good friend for quite some time.

The only question was, whether he should break the news to Combeferre. And if so, how?


	5. Chapter 5

The murals were anti-war protests all on their own; the colours bright, psychedelic, speaking of peace in a time when violence threatened to overcome, when everything else seemed meaningless.

To be part of the counterculture was to be  _ alive _ . To let himself experiment was to let him have a glimpse into times far gone, of people who wore different clothing and lived in different places but whose names and faces he impossibly  _ knew _ . And that’s where he found his true name. And it was with that, a capital R that he sprayed into the lower left of the design, that he signed his work. 

Nicholas was a name he could do without; a name that went with the person his parents wanted to program and turn into their automaton son. R was free, a butterfly that would soar in the breeze until his wings froze and burned and he was forced to plummet, only to find his way back into a cocoon and be reborn once again.

The redhead with his hair tied into an intricate braid paused his work on another wall to stare curiously at the mark he left.

Grantaire hadn’t seen him around before, though he’d thought when he’d come to join in the art effort that he was adorable. But… there was something about him now as he looked again.

“I knew an R once,” the redhead said, his brow furrowed in thought. “Don’t remember where from.”

Grantaire shrugged. “It’s a nickname. Almost done? We can get cleaned up and then find something good to smoke.”

The redhead gave him a smile. “Sounds great.”

"And what do I call you?"

The redhead stepped back from his work and pointed to his own signature, nestled within a pile of falling leaves. "Call me Feuilly."

Grantaire laughed and reached for his new old companion's hand. "If that's the case, we've got a lot to catch up on."


	6. Chapter 6

It was the furniture that intrigued him first: the man seemed to have a love of art nouveau and Modernist lines. Everything was pristine; black, white, or red, clean lines, bold but simple. No doubt the walls were done in similar shades, or else something in an unconventional neutral; perhaps slate grey? (How could someone live in a house full of slate grey walls? It seemed so clinical, even more so than the blank slate of white.) Pretty much the exact opposite of his colourful Kijiji-outfitted abode. (Not that he hadn’t found some amazing things; the antique couch had been a steal, and looked like a dream once he’d recovered it in that new brocade.) 

Of course, now that he was curious about the place, he'd have to come up with an excuse to visit. Perhaps bake some cookies or find an appropriately disgusting knick-knack that could solidify him as the eccentric but well-meaning-if-generally-drunk neighbour.

But one way or another, he'd find out just how correct his assumptions were.

 

* * *

 

A week or two later, and armed with an appropriate art piece, he was ready to make the trek. (He’d made the statue himself, white clay and shellac transformed into a series of spheres and circles that vaguely resembled what would happen if the Death Star and Saturn decided to have a love child. It was Deeply Symbolic.)

He wasn’t truly expecting the man behind the door to be so handsome. The academic look he could understand; those were more often the type than businessmen to go for this look at home. The takeout on the bauhaus-style table suggested that he was indeed alone, and his red sweater and golden hair, pulled into a ponytail that curled and ended just past his shoulders, made him seem gorgeous.

And, well,  _ crap _ . He shouldn’t want to date his neighbour. What if it didn’t turn out? He’d have to  _ move _ , and he  _ liked _ his house. Messy, disastrous, no mortgage, it was  _ perfect _ .

And so, he was left with two choices: either work up the courage to start flirting with this beautiful, Modernist creature, or pretend that the house beside him had been swallowed by a black hole, and go back to his den of squalitude to live as a hermit for the rest of his days.

 

* * *

 

His resolve to avoid his neighbour at all costs ended up lasting all of two days.

The angelic creature (both as beautiful as the Renaissance reimaginings and as awful and great as the biblical originals) was coming out of his car (a hybrid that somehow both matched his image of the man and made him wish for something more grand, like a classic candy-red sports car, or a sleek little convertible) while he was tending to his rose bush out front, trying to decide what version of John best suited this plant (the topiary was Siobhan, and the two apple trees Sean and Shawn. Maybe this would be Johnny-boy or Ianto.)

Apparently, the neighbour caught him staring (and was that his fault? The guy had an amazing butt!) because he gave a puzzled look before offering a hello. And you can't just ignore a greeting that direct, right? So, he gave back one of his own.

 

* * *

 

Hellos became conversations became invitations for drinks, and that's how he found himself in his neighbour's kitchen, only slightly disappointed when a coffee mug was placed before him rather than a wine glass. And, okay, the feeling may have been mollified a bit by the plate of cookies placed in the middle of the table, and the fact that the walls were white, and there actually was some natural wood here and there rather than the house being entirely starkness and acrylic.

And hey. The food was good, the conversation better, and he's not really sure if coffee tastes better when it's fair trade or when it's served by a handsome man, but neither one really hurts.

 

* * *

 

Things started slipping somewhere. Names and details that couldn't have been familiar, yet caused a familiar tug in the back of his mind. Mannerisms that he'd seen somewhere, with someone, long ago.

And when he found himself invited to stay the night, not quite sure who seduced who but happy to wind up in the same bed as this beautiful creature, he found himself dreaming of a barricade, of gunpowder, and of a familiar blond leading the charge.


	7. Chapter 7

It was somehow only fitting that he’d find the last of his former comrades over Grindr. A flick of his hand, swiping past a few faces that weren't his type at all, and he’d found himself staring into familiar eyes. And yeah, maybe the face was too slim, the skin was far too tanned, and the hair a different shade that the one recalled, but still, somehow, there was no doubt.

(The outfit was spot-on, for one. Even if it wasn’t something they’d’ve had back in the day, he could imagine his long-forgotten friend wearing the collar, cuffs, and bow tie of a formal outfit, but leaving the shirt off completely. And the cat ears.  _ Oh _ , the cat ears.)

And he found himself tapping to begin a conversation without even thinking about it, prefaced with the words,  _ Hello Courfeyrac. _

 

* * *

 

“Am I truly the last?” Courfeyrac asked, sweat glistening off his beautiful, picturesque form, eyes meeting his. “You’ve been in love with… romanced  _ all _ of us across the years?”

Grantaire could only nod his agreement. “Unless there is a tenth member of our core circle of which I still can’t remember.”

Courfeyrac gave a low whistle. “You’ve been getting  _ around _ .”

Grantaire shook his head and pulled his knees up to his chest. The bed shifted as Courfeyrac sat up, moving until he could hug him from behind.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he promised. “I think it’s wonderful.  _ Brilliant _ . Just like us, yeah?”

And… maybe it was. He’d seen all his friends again, loved them all deeper, differently, than he had any of them in the time—perhaps even in the world—where they’d once met.

“I’ve never met anyone else, though,” he muses. “Never the whole group. The first time—when I had the bini and their girl—what was her name?— that’s the most I’ve ever known. I don’t… it’s hard when you only remember one at a time, and for all you know, everyone else you pass on the street was  _ someone _ . You know?"

Courfeyrac gave a thoughtful expression, mulling over how best to respond. (He pouted when he thought deeply, and Grantaire had to admit it was completely adorable.) At last, he put both arms around Grantaire once more, pulling him into a tight hug.

"For now, you're  _ mine. _ And that means I'm going to make sure we both have the best time we can. If that means going on every dating site out there and seeing if any of our other friends exist, so be it. If that just means the two of us, and seeing where that goes, well, let's just say I greatly enjoy your company."

Grantaire gave a whispered word of thanks as he sunk into the embrace. Perhaps he wasn't sure what he did to deserve a friend, a lover, like Courfeyrac, but maybe, someday, he'd be able to make it up to him.


	8. Chapter 8

This time, he remembered early on. The boy sitting beside him in Kindergarten, who seemed too big in his chair, was clearly Bahorel. The kid on the swim team who wore colourful swim trunks was Jehan. Joly and Combeferre were lab partners behind him, and Feuilly was head of set painting during their third year drama presentation, in which Courfeyrac was the star. Bossuet fell into them literally, his lunch tray going everywhere and requiring at least three changes of clothes and narrowly avoiding instigating a food fight. And the new kid, just transferred from Korea, had a glint in his eyes that spoke to Grantaire’s soul.

For the first time since Paris, over two hundred years ago, they would all be together. He didn’t know what it meant, and part of him was terrified; afraid that another revolution was on the rise and he’d lose everyone and forget forever this time.

But if it meant more time with them, more time with the people that he’d lived with and loved in life after life, rekindling and improving the sparks of each relationship first forged in a life that still spoke to him in dreams… he’d take whatever was to come beside each of them. Beside  _ all _ of them.

And maybe, just maybe, this time they'd all find a happy ending.


End file.
